


The Cauldron of Ceridwen (part 2)

by Zaadi



Series: Alternate Third Series [10]
Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Backstory, Battle Scenes, Gen, IMHO, not that graphic, ymmv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-04 12:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaadi/pseuds/Zaadi
Summary: Merlin is in jail; Morgana is missing; Blaise is under threat; and Arthur must find Alvarr before he finishes a power-giving ritual of the great sorceress Ceridwen.





	The Cauldron of Ceridwen (part 2)

**Author's Note:**

> 'The Cauldron of Ceridwen' is one story. I posted the two parts separately because I'm trying to keep each of the stories in my Alternate Third Series about an episode's worth of material in length, and this story is definitely a two-parter. But, caveat emptor, part one should really be read first.

**3.10 The Cauldron of Ceridwen**

**Part 2**

* * *

After a circuitous trek through the woods, avoiding paths and doubling back several times, they stopped. Morgana touched her daggers, scrutinizing Bridget and Hardolf for signs of a double-cross. Hardolf whistled a signal. Although it was still dangerously dark beneath the trees, dawn was approaching, and one or two birds chattered in the distance. The three stood as still as monoliths until a signal echoed back.

Such precautions were reasonably secure—and Morgana felt sufficiently disoriented by their route—but she doubted Arthur would’ve been fooled. Eventually, Alvarr’s camp was doomed for discovery.

Footsteps crackled on the leaves and undergrowth; a fair-haired woman came forward. She wore men’s clothes, with her hair gathered in disarray on her head, and she held a naked sword in her hand. In the flora on either side, Morgana spotted two men jostling in the tress—poorly hidden scouts.

“Are you mad?” the woman demanded upon seeing Morgana. “You’ll have the whole of Camelot out here after you.”

“She doesn’t care,” Bridget said.

“Uther is already scouring the kingdom for you,” Morgana said as Alvarr emerged to join them. “If anything, my absence has divided his attention.”

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Alvarr soothed her with a hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Enmyria. Do you have the spell?” he asked Morgana.

“Half of it,” Bridget said.

“Half?” Enmyria repeated.

“Bridget threatened me,” Morgana said, beginning to lose her patience. “I wished to ensure my safety.”

“So you have it?” Alvarr said.

“Yes.” Morgana stepped past Alvarr. “Shall we?”

Alvarr bowed his head—respectful, elated—and led the way. Enmyria followed Morgana, flanked by the scouts who no longer bothered to hide, Bridget and Hardolf bringing up the rear with Bridget grumbling, _I want my knife back_.

 

~*~

Dungeon air wrapped Merlin in cold indifference as the self-important tones of knighthood trickled to his ears from another cell. Merlin discerned at least three voices, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Presumably, they were discussing Blaise’s escape. He hadn’t the luxury of worrying about it. Morgana was free, undoubtedly heading to Alvarr’s camp—if she were not already there. Merlin briefly wondered what would happen if she drank the potion instead of Alvarr; the thought flew away. The best option, regardless, was to destroy the spell and Cauldron both.

Which required being not in prison.

But breaking out would confirm Uther’s suspicions. Save the world just to be executed—nothing new there.

Merlin’s fingers twitched as he stared at the bars of his cell. He itched, trapped, restless—Morgana was winning and he was standing around, rigid and antsy.

Merlin wanted to blast his way out—despite the fact that he could easily, subtly, secretly, unlock the cell—he wanted to vent, to release all his years of hiding and lying—to announce his existence in an single burst of power and liberty. He wanted to accomplish his mission unhindered by the likes of Uther.

Yet Uther’s law was not the only factor anymore. Arthur knew that Merlin had magic; Arthur accepted magic; surely Arthur would protect him.

The voices still trickled in, bearing witness to whatever action he took. And Arthur was newly converted—perhaps, back within Uther’s influence . . .

Merlin’s fingers twitched, the only pronouncement of his frustrated deliberation.

Meanwhile, in the cell recently occupied by Blaise, Gaius knelt beside the unconscious Sir Eban, examining the naked knight. A mantle half-covered Eban, a consideration from one of Sir Lamorack’s hovering men. Sir Dafyd—also stripped—clutched a mantle around his shoulders and waist, as if trying to cocoon himself. Lamorack stared at Dafyd, his exasperation at Dafyd’s obstinate, desperate silence turning into pity.

“Is there anything you can do for him, Gaius?” Lamorack asked.

“I see no signs of broken bones or bleeding,” Gaius said, gently probing Eban’s neck. “If you take him to his chambers, I can examine him under better light. Hopefully, he’ll regain consciousness in a few hours.”

“I meant for Sir Dafyd,” Lamorack admitted awkwardly.

“Oh.” Gaius stood. Dafyd hadn’t shown signs he _couldn’t_ speak, just that he was afraid to.

“I don’t think Blaise would do anything malicious,” Gaius tried to sound reassuring. The Blaise of twenty years ago would have simply lied about a curse and counted on the knight’s credulity.

But twenty years contain a lot of moments—moments where things can happen, be said, done. People change.

“See me tomorrow if you still can’t talk. Excuse me.” Gaius left the knights to deliver Sir Eban, and he hurried—as patiently unconcerned as possible—to Merlin’s cell.

“What did you do this time?” Gaius demanded—fear turned the question into an accusation. But if Merlin had exposed himself . . .

“Nothing,” Merlin replied, relieved to see Gaius, who doubted the claim.

“Nothing,” Merlin insisted. “Uther’s paranoid.” He still stood in the middle of the cell, but he loosened, limbs unlocking their tension.

“I hope you’re not thinking of doing something stupid,” Gaius said.

“Like escaping so I can stop Morgana and Alvarr?”

“Merlin—”

“Gaius, I have to,” Merlin approached the bars to talk confidentially. “This is my Destiny.”

“How will you fulfill your Destiny if you’re banished? Or dead.” As he said it, Gaius realized how much he dreaded the possibility and its growing likelihood.

“If I don’t stop them, who will?”

From the end of the dungeon corridor, Lamorack called out, “My lord?”

Merlin continued, “How can I do nothing—”

“ _Gaius_ ,” Lamorack said more insistently, taking a tentative step towards them.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Gaius said to Merlin. “Don’t do anything before then.”

“Priestesses don’t just appear and hand out missions for no reason,” Merlin said—too loudly for Gaius’s comfort—as Gaius turned to catch up with Lamorack.

“On that point, at least,” said Ninianne from the corner of the cell, “you are right.”

~

 

Arthur slowly crossed the courtyard, idling his steps to let his thoughts whirl in peace. Several knights carried Sir Eban out of the dungeons on a litter, followed by a mantle-wrapped Sir Dafyd. Sir Lamorack exited a moment later, a quick word to the guards at the entrance, two of whom stood outside, two just within. It was a waste of good men—men Arthur needed to help catch Alvarr.

Merlin remained locked away in some cell.

And Arthur could do nothing. It was a temporary precaution, he told himself. An unjust, irrational precaution, but at least Merlin wasn’t slated for execution. Yet.

On top of it all, Morgana was lost to the wind. Arthur hoped finding Alvarr meant finding her. Unharmed.

Gaius emerged from the dungeons, blinking at the dawn as though he hadn’t seen the sun for decades.

“Gaius,” Arthur called, hurrying over to walk beside him. “I need to speak with your informant.”

“What?” Gaius realized he should know what Arthur was talking about.

“Last time we dealt with Alvarr, someone told you—” Arthur broke off.

Right. An informant from Alvarr’s camp. Gaius tried to obfuscate, but Arthur preempted him.

“It was Merlin, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t—”

“ _Gaius_. What did he do—some give-me-all-the-answers spell?”

“That’s not how it works,” Gaius said, avoiding the word _magic_ , even though Alvarr, as a sorcerer, gave every reason for it to come up; Merlin was too close to discovery—that Arthur now knew about it didn’t make anything in Camelot different. Not yet.

Maybe not ever. The thought haunted Gaius—and he didn’t want to admit to himself how much he believed it.

They had stopped walking. Instinctively, Gaius glanced around, but no one paid them any heed—the knights were busy searching, and the few servants and townsfolk hurried about with their heads down, knowing the slightest misstep would condemn them.

Gaius blinked it away.

“He could hear them in his head,” he admitted to Arthur.

“He followed invisible voices?”

“That’s one way to put it.” Gaius couldn’t tell if Arthur’s expression was disbelief or fatigue. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I can’t help you.”

Arthur nodded absently. His posture stayed as erect as ever, but his morale was crumbling. Gaius had no comfort to give; but Arthur was suddenly distracted by four knights who had passed through the gate from the lower town, and who were heading purposefully towards them.

“Thank you, Gaius.” Arthur turned.

“One other thing, Arthur,” Gaius said. “There was a pile of clothes in the cell, Blaise’s and a woman’s—and since two of our knights have lost their attire, it’s safe to assume that Blaise and his accomplice are disguised as knights.”

“Have you reported this to anyone?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Gaius said. “And I won’t bring it up—but it’s an obvious conclusion and I’m certain Sir Lamorack reached it.”

The four knights had hesitated, staying a polite distance away as Gaius and Arthur spoke.

“If you’ll excuse me, Sire,” Gaius said. “I must attend to Sir Eban.”

Gaius departed and Arthur considered the situation as the four knights caught up to him. To Arthur’s belated surprise—and alarm—Cadoc and Taran stood before him, alongside Caradoc and Blaise.

“You,” Arthur pointed apprehensively at Cadoc and Taran, “are involved in this?”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Caradoc interjected.

“Sire,” Cadoc said. “What do we do now?”

“She wants to put him back in the dungeons,” Taran said, indicating Blaise.

“Would you think to look for him there?” Caradoc replied.

“Out of the question,” Arthur said. “As you can see. They’re guarding Merlin in there.”

“Great,” Blaise said.

“So, what,” Taran asked, “we wander around pretending to search for him—how long will that work?”

“Temporarily,” Caradoc said.

“Sire,” Cadoc asked quietly. “If we don’t get Blaise and Merlin out, what happens to Cameliard?”

“Alvarr is our first priority,” Arthur said diplomatically, not wanting to think about it, though he wondered at Cadoc’s concern. “Blaise, can you track sorcerers in your head?”

“No,” Blaise said, unsure what Arthur was getting at.

“You can’t hear them in your head?” Arthur said.

“I can communicate with mage-born, or with practiced sorcerers,” Blaise said, still not quite understanding.

“You want him to follow magic thoughts,” Caradoc guessed; Arthur confirmed.

“I’ve never eavesdropped,” Blaise said, mulling it over. “I don’t know if I can—are the consequences of failure worth the attempt?”

It was a sincere question—Blaise was willing to try—and Arthur wanted to say yes, but the word refused to leave his mouth. He didn’t know how to keep Blaise hidden if Blaise was acting as their hound; failure almost certainly meant death, and success didn’t preclude it. Therefore, the only guarantor of locating Alvarr was Merlin, in prison. Were his father in a better mood, Arthur might convince him to release Merlin on account of princely whims—servants were incompetent in general, he’d argue, but Merlin at least grasped a few of the concepts.

But Uther would be in no such mood until they stopped Alvarr and found Morgana.

“Come with me,” he ordered. He could keep Blaise safe for the moment, which would hopefully be enough time to think and formulate a plan.

Hopefully.

 

~*~

Ninianne sat in the dank corner of Merlin’s cell, for all outward appearances a despondent prisoner. Her hair was disheveled, her bare feet dirty, and her red dress drained of its vibrancy, as though she wore the dried blood flakes of an irritated scab. Merlin’s heart sank in a wave of pity. She hadn’t risen. Merlin stared and she stared back, leaning against the wall with her knees gathered into her chest, arms crossed atop.

She had said nothing further. And the casual assurance of her demeanor belied all concepts of confinement. Merlin realized that they were both in the dungeons by choice.

“Hello,” Merlin said.

“Hello,” Ninianne said.

She was young and beautiful and matronly and old—as touchable as loam and as distant as a star. Here he stood, in the presence of a Priestess; Merlin couldn’t help but gape in awe.

A childish reaction. “I have a question,” Merlin said, trying to comport himself properly.

Ninianne cocked an ear.

“If Alvarr is strong enough to kill a powerful sorcerer to get the Cauldron in the first place, then why does he need it?”

Not something Merlin was dying to know, but of the thousand things he wanted to ask, the only one that came to mind.

“Alvarr killed Gansguoter by pure luck,” Ninianne replied.

“Luck?”

“It can happen to anybody.”

“Are you going to avenge Gansguoter?” Merlin probed.

“No,” Ninianne said; by her expression, she thought the question inane.

“Are you going to do anything to stop Alvarr?”

“No.” Now inscrutable.

“Why not?”

_Excellent question._

He heard the unknown woman’s voice in is head. Ninianne had heard it too—the comment seemed more directed at her—but remained unperturbed.

“Alvarr is of little consequence,” Ninianne said.

_Meaning Alvarr doesn’t threaten priestesses or the Old Gods._

“So you don’t care?” Merlin couldn’t believe the turnaround—why inform them about the Cauldron in the first place, then?

“Alvarr’s success or failure,” Ninianne reiterated impatiently, “is not my problem.”

“Wha—?” Merlin flailed. “The Cauldron won’t actually make him that powerful—we’re all running around for nothing?”

_That’s not what Ninianne said—not very bright, is he?_

“I’m smart enough to know that a priestess has better things to do than insult me,” Merlin regained his composure. “Why are you here?”

“You’re losing,” Ninianne said.

“You don’t say.”

_She didn’t say Alvarr is winning, you idiot. And nobody said Morgana was your bane._

_Elayne_ , Ninianne rebuked from her spot on the floor.

_Kilgarah did,_ Merlin stated—surely priestesses knew what dragons knew.

_A dragon?_ Elayne sneered. _How would a dragon know—did you ever bother to wonder that?_

“You’ve decided to break out of here,” Ninianne said, retaking the conversation.

“Since you’re not going to do anything about Alvarr,” Merlin answered Ninianne, putting Elayne aside for the moment. “I don’t really have a choice.”

_We can’t do anything,_ Elayne taunted. _We’re not allowed._

Merlin realized there was some older debate between Ninianne and Elayne rearing its head. He tried to decipher Ninianne, but only her rigid arms across her knees gave any hint of her opinion.

_Alvarr doesn’t threaten us,_ Elayne continued bitterly. _Or upset the balance of the world; he serves no dark power—‘the rules are clear.’_

“Priestesses are bound by rules?” Merlin asked, remembering Nimueh’s vendetta against Uther, and how undisturbed she’d been by any ‘rules.’

“How’d that work out for her?” Ninianne snapped, reading his mind—and for one second, Merlin feared her wrath, and her power.

“What are the rules?” he asked tentatively.

“They don’t apply to you,” Ninianne said.

_You’re special—hasn’t anyone told you?_ Elayne said.

“Stay put,” Ninianne said to Merlin, ignoring Elayne’s gibe.

“In this cell?” Merlin said. “What about the Cauldron—if anyone uses it, they’ll be unstoppable.”

_Are you unstoppable?_

_No_ , Ninianne answered Elayne; to Merlin: “You don’t have to stay forever.”

“Then how long do you want me to stay?”

“Until you are summoned,” Ninianne said.

“Could you be more specific,” Merlin said, “or is that against the rules?”

“Yes,” Ninianne said.

Merlin stared at Ninianne. He didn’t mind the imperative to stop Alvarr, but balked at the possibility that he had to serve Ninianne as well as Arthur. But was “stay put” an order or advice? Did she sit bundled on the floor as a form of supplication or a threat? Was she underscoring her power by placing herself in a vulnerable, submissive position—though at no point had Merlin considered her submissive or anything less than in complete control. Was she playing mind games, then? Merlin had seen her with Lancelot and knew Blaise valued her teachings. She claimed Alvarr was no concern of hers, and yet had made sure they knew about the Cauldron.

_Why are you here?_ Merlin asked.

“I’m not.” She breathed the words in Merlin’s ear—he swung to his left, startled by her sudden, impossible proximity. Only absence. And when he looked back to the corner, she was gone.

~

 

Elayne leaned against a tree at the edge of Alvarr’s camp—if Alvarr’s camp could be said to have an edge. A haphazard conglomeration of tents pitched between roots and underbrush, the camp looked like a gathering of vagabonds. To pack up and disperse quickly, reassembling elsewhere was, of course, the point.

In the center of Elayne’s view stood the Cauldron of Ceridwen—empty, waiting in a cold fire pit, fresh wood at the ready.

Alvarr led Morgana to the Cauldron, though others avoided it. He hovered his hand along the Cauldron’s belly, his eyes flashing gold as he muttered some spell. Whorls and etchings briefly glowed in spidery blue light all along the belly of the Cauldron. Morgana was suitably impressed; Elayne wanted to spit venom.

Morgana gave the spell—intact—to Alvarr, who received it buoyantly. He kissed her cheek and ran off. Alone, Morgana ran her hand along the rim of the Cauldron until something startled her: she checked around her for its source.

Elayne leaned against the tree unseen. Never seen. Morgana blinked twice at Elayne’s position, but shrugged off whatever intuition she’d felt. She rubbed her arms, though the day was warming. A few of Alvarr’s people glanced at Morgana warily and shied away.

Elayne was sick of watching.

~

 

The sun assaulted Arthur’s sleep-deprived eyes as he hurried through the lower town toward Gwen’s house. Blaise was safely—for now—guarding the Crystal of Neyetid, along with Caradoc, Cadoc, and Taran. Arthur needed to find Morgana, and Gwen may have seen something.

A thought apparently shared by Uther, for when Arthur arrived, Gwen was being escorted out her door, one arm grasped firmly by a knight. Sir Lamorack exited after, joining the small group of waiting knights; passers-by looked the other way.

“Lamorack,” Arthur walked up. “What’s going on?”

“Arthur!” Gwen said, losing the panic in her eyes for a moment. At the Prince’s name, a few neighbors dared to watch.

“King’s orders, Sire,” Lamorack told Arthur.

“Arthur, please, I’ve done nothing,” Gwen tried to move, but the knight gripped her arm more tightly.

“Why is she under arrest?” Arthur asked.

“She’s not,” Lamorack said. “The King wishes to speak to her about Lady Morgana—she’s the Lady’s personal maidservant.”

“I’m aware of that,” Arthur replied. “She looks like she’s under arrest.”

“Sire.” Lamorack shifted uncomfortably.

“That means unhand her,” Arthur snarled at the knight holding Gwen.

Reluctantly, the knight released her, and she ran up to Arthur.

“Arthur, please, don’t let them search my home,” she begged. Arthur threw a questioning look at Lamorack.

“Orders, Sire,” he admitted.

“If she has nothing to hide,” said the knight who’d held her, “then why is she afraid?”

Gwen felt trapped. “They’ll break everything,” she said, grasping at the memory of Gaius’s chambers last year, after a similar search. “Please, Arthur—I’ve done nothing, and my word is worthless,” she felt her voice quaking, but couldn’t tell if anyone noticed, or whether it would make her seem more innocent or guilty.

“Anyone would be afraid,” Arthur answered the knight.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Lamorack said firmly. “I have orders from the King.”

“You’re looking for Alvarr,” Arthur said. Not a question.

“And Blaise,” Lamorack said. “Their accomplice as well.”

They don’t share an accomplice, Arthur wanted to snap. Instead he said, “Then look for those people—which doesn’t require destroying the meager possessions of the poor.”

Lamorack nodded in understanding, but one of the other knights scoffed.

“Did you say something?” Arthur demanded.

“I said I’m sure Lady Morgana’s largesse will compensate for any inconvenience the King’s orders cause his subjects,” the knight retorted, adding, “This is the nicest peasant house I’ve ever seen.”

“Morgana does treat you well, doesn’t she,” Arthur turned toward Gwen, like an old friend reminiscing.

“Yes,” Gwen said uncertainly, still terrified that the knights would search her house.

“Then Guinevere has every reason to want Morgana back safe and sound,” Arthur said to the knight.

“Prince Arthur,” Lamorack said. “This is a matter to discuss with the King.”

“I agree,” Arthur said. “Which is why _I_ will escort Guinevere to the King; you will look for criminals. And when the King is satisfied, I’m going to come back and peruse ‘the nicest peasant house ever’—I had better find it in one piece.”

“I understand, Sire,” Lamorack said, feeling caught in a debate that had nothing to do with him.

“Excellent,” Arthur said, guiding Gwen away. Gwen glanced back: Sir Lamorack and the knights entered her house. Arthur’s hand on her arm was gentle—she barely felt it—but of no comfort. She turned within, praying that the knights would not be thorough, because if they were, they’d find the magic ring hidden in a hole in the wood of her bed, and she’d be dead.

~

 

The corridor felt empty to Gaius, though guards stood at regular intervals—twice the usual number. Still, Gaius felt separated from it—a feeling both peaceful and insidious, and he slowed his pace, not wanting to report to Uther just yet.

His second examination of Sir Eban had yielded no new information, and the knight would regain consciousness in due time.

“Gaius, a moment, if you will,” a voice called from behind him—Andronic, one of the Council, whose poise sank as soon as he reached Gaius.

“Do you believe Blaise?” Andronic asked confidentially.

“Does it matter?” Gaius said.

“No, I suppose not.” They were approaching the Great Hall—Andronic glanced at the doors with trepidation.

“Andronic,” Gaius began.

“If Blaise isn’t caught,” Andronic stopped, “what happens?”

“I don’t know,” Gaius said softly, not understanding the question or the urgency behind it.

“Will we hunt him down?” Andronic asked with undisguised concern. “All the way to Cameliard?”

“I didn’t realize he was a friend.”

“He’s not,” Andronic said quickly—Gaius noted that Andronic was painfully aware of every nearby guard, and he realized:

“Your son is part of the company watching Cameliard.”

“I have fought many campaigns with Uther Pendragon,” Andronic began, half to himself.

“Admirably,” Gaius said.

Andronic looked at him. “I was so surprised he even knew who I was.”

“As I recall,” Gaius said, “it was hard not to notice your skill.”

Andronic accepted the statement, but not as a compliment. “I’m older now,” he said. “I don’t like senseless death.”

“Yet you think Blaise should be executed.”

“I wish him no harm,” Andronic whispered. “Truly I don’t, but if it can avoid a siege . . .”

“It would be more of a slaughter, and you know it,” Gaius said. “I doubt your son would be hurt.”

“Cameliard is far from defenseless.”

“No,” Gaius admitted. “But it’s not Camelot.” He walked off, not wanting to consider the truth in Andronic’s concerns. He entered the hall, where an interrogation—interview—of sorts—was in progress. He proceeded quietly.

Arthur stood before his father, Gwen prostrate on the floor beside him.

“Stand up, Guinevere,” Arthur said, gaze locked on Uther. Slowly, carefully, she stood, holding back tears.

“That description doesn’t match what my men have reported,” Uther said.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Arthur said. “Blaise escaped at the same time Morgana was abducted—to be the same woman, she’d have to have been in two places at once.”

“She said her name was Bridget,” Gwen whispered.

“Speak clearly,” Uther commanded.

“The woman’s name is Bridget,” Arthur said.

“Not Caradoc?” Uther stared at Arthur.

Arthur said nothing, emotions battling on his face. Gwen looked at him, glanced at the King, and ventured, “N-no, my lord. She said her name was Bridget.”

“Very well,” Uther said finally. “It seems we have yet another person to catch.”

“Sire,” Arthur stepped forward.

“Any word on Alvarr?” Uther preempted Arthur’s objection.

“No,” Arthur grimaced. “Just the name of his accomplice.”

“Gaius?” Uther said brightly—a change of subject—a dismissal.

“Sir Eban will fully recover,” Gaius said. “Sir Dafyd is embarrassed, but unharmed.”

“Blaise doesn’t kill,” Arthur refused to be ignored. “Alvarr does.”

“Not relevant,” Uther seethed.

“How is that not relevant?” Arthur demanded.

“He is a sorcerer!” Uther rose from the throne and descended on Arthur. “Tend. To. Your. Duties.”

“Sire,” Arthur acquiesced, his face a medley of desperation. “Guinevere,” he faced her, “thank you for your help, you may go.”

He left the Great Hall, with Gwen on his heels—she was too afraid to be anywhere else. Arthur gave no indication he noticed her.

“Arthur,” she asked tentatively, once they were in the corridor. “Is-is Blaise . . .” Blaise was going to be executed, what point was there in asking about him.

“Blaise is a good man,” Arthur said bitterly. “Sorcery is just one thing he happens to know.”

Gwen pondered that, though it didn’t help her get rid of the magic ring.

“I’m sorry, Guinevere,” Arthur stopped, as though awakening from a reverie. “I can’t escort you home—I have to—do something—find Morgana—capture Alvarr—just tell me if anything’s broken, and I’ll take care of it. Once this is over. I promise.”

“No, it’s okay—I’m sure everything will be fine,” she lied. “Go. Find Morgana. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” Arthur mumbled, to everything and nothing. “Thank you.” He hurried away, consumed again by his own thoughts.

It was just as well—Gwen didn’t want to go home.

 

Arthur headed straight back to the vault containing the Crystal of Neyetid. “Tell me you’ve come up with a plan,” he said as soon as he reached the door.

“Yes,” Blaise said, sitting on the floor against the wall, staring at his fingertips.

“No,” Caradoc countered. She stood at the entrance to the vault, which was more like a cell door than secret chamber. And while Blaise had discarded half his knightly disguise, Caradoc waited with her helmet tucked beneath her arm, as did Taran and Cadoc. Arthur glanced around at the four—commanding that somebody elaborate.

“Switch me with Merlin,” Blaise said. “I’ll occupy his cell while he tracks down Alvarr’s camp.”

“I am not leaving you here to be executed,” Caradoc said.

“And I won’t let Cameliard get conquered because of my stupidity,” Blaise rose from the floor.

“Then you have to return to Cameliard,” Sir Cadoc said, “and teach Merlin.”

“And you think Uther will just wave goodbye to me if I make out the gate?” Blaise said. “I have blatantly disregarded his edicts by knowing magic while walking on his land.”

“Cameliard is not going to be destroyed,” Arthur insisted. “By my father or a priestess—and you’re not getting executed.” He turned to Caradoc: “Either of you.”

“Arthur,” Blaise said, “you don’t have the luxury of protecting your friends. That Cauldron in that man’s hands is a threat to all of us.”

No one could argue the point.

“What do we do, Sire?” Sir Cadoc asked.

 ~

 

When Gaius returned to his chambers, he found Gwen sitting on the steps leading up to Merlin’s room. She held her arms around herself, chewing her lip; as Gaius closed the door, she met his eyes. She was desperate and terrified.

“Gw—” Gaius started.

“Please help me.”

“Gwen, what’s wrong?” Gaius pulled a chair across from her and sat, leaning elbows on knees.

“They’re searching my house,” she said.

“I heard.”

Gwen blanched.

“Sir Lamorack came to report before I left,” Gaius tried to sound reassuring, but couldn’t understand the cause of Gwen’s disconsolation.

“The knights didn’t find anything,” he added.

Gwen bobbed her head, uncomforted.

“Gwen,” Gaius prompted, “what might they have found?”

“That ring,” she whispered.

“Lunette’s ring? That makes its wearer invisible?”

“She wanted to give it to Blaise,” Gwen said. “Is that funny?”

“Gwen,” Gaius said.

“I took it,” Gwen said, meeting his gaze.

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” she jumped up, stepping almost this way, almost that.

“It was just lying on the floor,” she blurted. “And there were so many people—the King, Lancelot, Morgana, guards, you—and everyone was focused on the King and the dead man—and it was just lying there—on the floor—it had caused so much trouble—I didn’t—” Gwen sank back onto the steps. “I didn’t want any more trouble . . . I even tried to melt it—” her voice caught, eyes brimming with tears. "And now Uther thinks I had something to do with Morgana’s disappearance.”

“Uther doesn’t think that,” Gaius said. “It’s just—”

It’s just what happens in times like these, he thought.

“Come,” he said, taking Gwen’s hand and rising. “I’ll escort you home—give me Lunette’s ring—it’ll be all right.”

Gwen wanted to object, to say no, to be brave and heroic—the whole point had been that no one else get hurt. But she was too drained—and grateful—and she tightened her grip on Gaius’s hand, and managed a weak smile.

 

~*~

Still in Alvarr’s camp, Morgana sat—useless and isolated—on a large log that had been repurposed for a bench. Sounds of the camp drifted to her ears; she wondered if all of them had magic, yet felt no comfort in the possibility. The whorls of the nearby Cauldron echoed in her eyes—she thought she could just make them out, etched into the soul of the Cauldron—until she stared straight at it: unremarkable grey, like a pleasant, lying dream.

“Are you hungry, my lady?”

A bowl of porridge appeared in her field of vision, and although she was not startled—indeed, the voice sounded familiar—she hadn’t heard anyone approach.

“No,” she said reflexively. She was famished, but felt discarded—surely there was more she could do. She glanced up: Elayne stood there, holding the bowl.

“Yes,” Morgana amended. “Of course.”

Elayne handed her the porridge; she waited as Elayne sat down beside her.

“Elayne,” Morgana stated.

“Yes.”

“You’re my sister.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Morgana asked.

“Would you have believed me?” Elayne replied. “A stranger enters your life with a claim of kinship—that _no one_ has ever told you existed—and you’d take her at her word? I thought you were more discerning than that.”

Morgana stirred her porridge—she had never thought porridge could seem so enticing; but a knot twisted her stomach, preventing her from eating.

“Are you a part of Alvarr’s camp?” Morgana asked hopefully. It was a fair question, and a reasonable assumption, but she knew it wasn’t true.

“No,” Elayne confirmed.

“I must have a thousand questions for you,” Morgana said to her bowl.

“Presumably.”

“I have none.”

“I see that.”

Morgana lifted a spoonful of porridge to her lips; she paused—not to blow on it, but to prepare for swallowing. She realized she felt consumed by an overwhelming—a voracious—sense of grief and abandonment and betrayal. She lowered the spoon.

“Morgana,” Elayne asked, “Have you talked to Arthur about his time in Cameliard?”

“What?” Morgana said—what did that have to do with anything?

“Why does Arthur advocate for the sorcerer Blaise?” Elayne pressed.

“I don’t know.” Morgana hadn’t thought about it.

“What do you want to happen here, Morgana?”

Morgana adjusted herself, wriggling subtly, as if she had an indiscreet itch. Her fingers squeezed the porridge bowl—she wanted to be rid of it—no—she wanted to hide in the underbrush and take forever to eat it. Alone.

“What do _you_ want to happen?” Morgana spat. Then, evening her tone, “What are you doing here?”

“What little I can,” Elayne replied bitterly.

Morgana believed her. Elayne changed the subject:

“Hunger is debilitating, Morgana—eat, even if you don’t want to.”

Morgana took a bite, chewing slowly. The second bite was easier. And still, all the important questions flit about just beyond her grasp.

“Morgause is our half-sister,” Elayne offered. “But you only have our words for it.”

Morgana felt no surprise. “You don’t hate Uther,” she observed.

“Nor do I like him,” Elayne said. “The world is bigger than Uther.”

“His sycophants fill plenty of it,” Morgana said sourly.

“Is that your judgment of Arthur?”

Morgana wanted to scream _yes_ but lacked the conviction.

“What about your friend?” Elayne said.

“You mean Gwen?”

“Have you any other friends?”

No. Morgana’s eyes filled; she ordered the tears to retreat. She chewed and chewed and chewed until her throat unclenched enough to swallow again.

“No wonder you cling to charlatans,” Elayne sighed, disappearing. _Alvarr is not the last of Ceridwen’s line._

Morgana absently stirred the remaining porridge, staring at the dirt. She sensed approaching footsteps and tried not to admire how quietly they tread.

“There you are,” Enmyria said. “He wants to see you.”

Morgana nodded, as if she’d expected such a message. She placed the bowl on the log, stood, brushed off her hands, and wordlessly had Enmyria lead the way.

~

 

An inescapable morass, Gaius thought, clenching his physician’s bag—as if it might run off—and returning to his chambers. The invisibility ring lay buried among his tools, so at least he’d been able to protect Gwen, but how long could he keep it hidden?

However, it was not the ring’s discovery he feared—he touched the bag thoughtfully—he glanced at Merlin’s room surreptitiously—

And noticed Arthur sitting on Merlin’s bed, flipping through a book that Gaius didn’t recognize. Gaius left the ring for the moment. Enchantments flashed by between Arthur’s hands.

“One wonders how he’s evaded discovery for so long,” Gaius said, standing in Merlin’s doorway and nodding at the magic book.

“He plays a convincing idiot,” Arthur replied, watching the passing pages.

“He’s not always playing. Unfortunately,” Gaius took the book from Arthur and clutched it to his chest.

“You used to practice magic,” Arthur said, meeting Gaius’s eye.

“Did Blaise tell you that?”

“My father told me.”

Gaius wanted, in that instant, to incinerate the book—and to protect it with his whole being—and to wield it as a shield—all at once. But he moved no muscle.

“You agreed with the Purge,” Arthur stated.

Gaius released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—perhaps he’d been holding it for years. He sat down on a chest, placing the book gently beside him. He faced Arthur.

“People were abusing magic then,” Gaius explained. “The Old Religion had fractured into sects, some benign, some aggressive. But many people didn’t practice the Old Religion at all—they used magic because they could—because they thought it made things easy. It was about power.” Gaius watched Arthur digest what he said then added, “Igraine pushed the hardest for laws.”

“My mother hated magic?” Arthur said, his face unreadable.

“She thought it shouldn’t go unchecked.”

“Did anyone you know die in the Purge?” Arthur said.

“Yes.” Gaius disliked how closed off Arthur seemed.

“Did anyone you care about die?”

“Arthur, what is this about?” Gaius picked up the book and stood, trying to decide where best to stash it, away from prying eyes.

“You protect Merlin,” Arthur said.

“Yes.”

“And Blaise?”

Gaius felt Arthur’s eyes boring into his back. When he turned around, Arthur was on his feet.

“Blaise took an unnecessary risk,” Gaius said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

One second: Arthur waited for whatever else Gaius had to say and walked out. Gaius hugged the book and listened to Arthur’s boots against the floor, to the closing of the door. When had Arthur mastered the politic skill of non-reaction? Uther couldn’t do it—Uther never had to. An expression straight from his mother, and yet Gaius swore he read disgust on Arthur’s face, a look that said, _fear not, Gaius, I never assumed I could count on you._

~

 

“It has to boil for three days?” Morgana asked.

“Non-stop, and stirred constantly the whole time,” Alvarr said.

They were in his tent eating fish and barley cakes. Enmyria ate heartily beside Alvarr; Morgana picked at her fish. Alvarr chewed in spurts, trying not to talk with his mouth full. And failing. He gulped a mug of watered-down ale that, try as she might—polite as she strove to be—Morgana simply could not stomach.

“And only three drops of it are good?” she asked.

“Stingy spell,” Enmyria said.

Alvarr set his emptied mug down on the table. “The gods are smiling on me, Morgana,” he said. “We have every ingredient I need—including, I believe, time.”

Three days, Morgana thought.

~

 

“We are running out of time,” Uther said. He stared impatiently out over the city, his direct line of sight flying over the front gates of Camelot. Behind him stood three of his council. He had not asked them there.

“Prince Arthur wants more men to help find Alvarr,” Ulfius said.

“I am aware of my son’s opinions,” Uther said. He scoured the movements below—nobles promenading across the courtyard; servants scurrying; in the distance, the weaving people of the lower town—all casting long shadows in the failing afternoon—and Uther poised to strike anyone who flinched. Up on the nearby watchtower, three guards, faceless, maintained a rigid vigil.

“Alvarr is the greater threat at the moment,” said Andronic. “Especially if this power ritual exists.”

“We’ve defeated powerful sorcerers before,” Gylberd said. “But who took the Lady Morgana, and why?”

“Blaise did sneak into her chambers,” Ulfius said.

“So did Alvarr,” Andronic said. “And despite our fervent efforts, we’ve never defeated a priestess—only thwarted.”

Uther turned around, a moving statue of unforgiving suspicion. “Are you insinuating something?”

“Facts are not insinuations, Sire,” Andronic stood firm. “I am suggesting that Blaise might be telling the truth about why he came to Camelot. Our affairs with priestesses have seldom been pleasant—is there any benefit to courting the ire of one now?”

“We’ve no reason to trust Blaise,” Gylberd said.

“Alvarr means us harm,” Andronic replied. “We can trust _that_.”

“They are both sorcerers, that’s all we need to know,” Uther said. “Speak plainly or leave.”

Andronic and Gylberd hesitated in the shadow of Uther’s mood.

“Lady Morgana has overtly demonstrated a certain sympathy,” Gylberd finally said. “On more than one occasion. She may have left willingly.”

“I apologize, Sire, but my concern is not Lady Morgana,” Andronic said. “We are treating Blaise and Alvarr as equal threats when they are not. I agree with Prince Arthur.”

“I don’t,” Uther said, ending all debate.

Andronic bowed, a begrudging acquiescence, and he and Gylberd left.

“There were once rumors about Lady Rhiannon,” Ulfius admitted confidentially.

“Rumors.” Uther again turned to the view below. “Trust me—Igraine was more likely to have magic than Rhiannon.”

“People were speaking figuratively when they claimed she enchanted you,” Ulfius said.

Uther softened, a wistful glaze overtaking his eyes.

“Gansguoter did give Igraine a spell,” Ulfius said, seizing the King’s attention—an old suspicion from across the years finally confirmed—Uther accepted it, though more on a personal level than as information pertinent to the situation. Ulfius continued:

“I also agree with Arthur. And Lady Morgana does have a sympathetic ear.”

With that he left.

And Uther was alone.

~

 

The switch went smoothly. Blaise, disguised as a knight, Cadoc, Madoc, and Taran walked into the dungeons as though reporting for duty—two in the dungeon antechamber, two outside Merlin’s cell. When two other knights arrived for the evening shift, Cadoc and Madoc moved from the antechamber to the cell, now occupied by Blaise; Merlin, dressed in armor, and Taran walked out.

Arthur stood sentry beneath the Gate, contemplating the twilit lower town. Caradoc stood beside him, guarding—just a knight of Camelot attending the Prince. An attuned ear could make out the pacing of the guards above.

Taran and Merlin marched up. “Reporting as requested, Sire,” Taran said. Merlin scratched beneath his helmet.

Arthur barely surfaced from his reverie as he ordered Caradoc and Taran to join the search for sorcerers in the lower town; but for Merlin he turned: “You, with me.”

The two pairs parted, Merlin whispering, “Will Cara be okay?”

“Not now,” Arthur hissed back, and they continued to Gaius’s with all due duty-projecting decorum.

~

 

The dying twilight hovered over Alvarr’s camp. A hushed bustle pervaded, like tiny animals in the underbrush—Alvarr and his people were preparing Ceridwen’s spell. He circled the Cauldron, burning sage in a circle at twelve intervals. Morgana had not seen sage mentioned in the spell, but he probably knew something she didn’t—she had no expertise in magic, after all. Enmyria oversaw the piling of firewood, and a youth, no older than fourteen, organized ingredients as they were laid upon a nearby table—his eyes would flash gold and a bowl would scoot or hover. Morgana envied him. But she was helping now, grinding a root with what smelled like bergamot.

_So this is all you have then, is it?_ Elayne said.

Morgana knew better than to look around for her. _What are you offering me?_ She examined the paste that was forming.

No response.

_That’s what I thought—nothing._ For a moment, Morgana hated what she was doing—acting like a brainless ox in someone else’s master plan. She would have flown immediately if Elayne suggested any alternative. But nothing. Yet was Alvarr really giving her anything either? Just an escape from Uther . . .

Morgana looked up: A woman, red dress, black hair wild but not unkempt, sat on the root of a tree, watching the camp. No one else noticed her. She felt Morgana’s stare and locked eyes with her—a gaze as vast and impenetrable as the ocean. Morgana quickly turned back to her grinding, feeling guilty—like a stubborn, disobedient child whose elders, disappointed once too often, have finally given up. An unfair feeling—who was this witch to judge—what had Morgana done so wrong?

It made her hate the world.

 

 ~*~

“Ready?” Taran asked Caradoc. She’d stashed her stolen armor behind a blacksmith’s forge, and now they hid in the shadow of a fence, Caradoc dressed in her habitual black—boots, trousers, tunic, a fitted leather jerkin, and her hair tied at the nape of her neck. She nodded.

She checked their surroundings. The lower town had settled into the night, doors and windows shut tight. She jogged off, fleeing from one cover to another.

Taran waited long enough to quell potential suspicion—to confirm no eyes were watching—and hurried after.

“I got her!” he yelled, to draw the patrols. Then the chase truly began (though Taran knew Caradoc would let him catch her first).

Official shouts reverberated throughout the streets—a few windows cracked open. The muted thud of boots on dirt filled the air.

“Over here!” Taran called as he caught up with Caradoc. He grabbed her arm and removed her sword from its scabbard and the dagger she kept at her low back. Two knights ran up, swords drawn—others were approaching.

“Still pretending to be a catamite, I see,” Sir Silvius said upon seeing Caradoc.

“Desperate for an hour?” Caradoc retorted. She didn’t recognize the second knight—his grizzled beard and dark eyes were the only features peeking out from his helmet, and he kept his expression neutral.

“Silvius,” Taran said, “shut up for once.” He gave Caradoc’s sword and dagger to the other knight as a full patrol surrounded them.

“Bugger off,” Silvius sniped, sword still ready for a fight.

“Enough,” Sir Rigel said, annoyed. He sheathed his sword. “Mistress Caradoc."

“Sir Rigel,” she returned politely.

“Let’s go,” Rigel ordered.

He led the way to the Great Hall, Taran escorting Caradoc, and the patrol filing behind.

Once in the Great Hall, they waited—Taran and Rigel stood guard on either side of Caradoc, while the knights took up stations along the walls. A second group of knights joined them—on somebody’s order—as nobles and the Council trickled in. Gaius arrived with Arthur, but stayed off to the side, as though a spectator, his mind occupied by other matters. Arthur replaced Taran and Rigel. Lastly, King Uther entered, striding to his throne, an unforgiving general in a judge’s seat.

“So this is Leodogran’s spy,” Uther said.

Caradoc snorted.

“No, Sire,” Arthur said quickly. “She is Princess Anna’s friend and paladin.”

A title neither Caradoc nor Uther had expected.

“Caradoc is here only for the purpose of protecting Cameliard,” Arthur continued.

“You knew she was here?” Uther said.

Caradoc interjected: “I have information on Alvarr.”

“No,” Arthur answered his father.

“Irked I got past your little battalion?” Caradoc asked Uther.

“Don’t. Antagonize,” Arthur said quietly Caradoc. To Uther, he said, “She has information on Alvarr.”

“So she claims,” Uther said. “And you would just give us this information?”

“I’d give you his head, if I hadn’t already promised it to another,” Caradoc replied.

“As I’ve mentioned,” Arthur said, “Alvarr would be executed in Cameliard. For multiple crimes.”

Uther regarded Arthur with pointed detachment—perhaps evaluating what Arthur had said—or evaluating the Prince himself.

“Alvarr’s plans then,” Caradoc spoke up, “included killing the King.”

Whether Uther heard her was anyone’s guess—he finally looked her way, and she continued:

“You’re right, I’m not going to just give you information—I will show you where Alvarr is, if you let me go.”

“And Alvarr’s head?” Uther said.

Caradoc wavered, then said, “Promise me Blaise’s safety, and I will deliver it to you on a plate of gold.”

Impassive—implacable—Uther deliberated.

“Sire,” Arthur said softly, “we need to get Alvarr. Caradoc isn’t a sorceress.”

“You trust her?”

“I will vouch for her.”

“Yet she won’t tell us where he is—she insists on showing us.”

“You can’t read my marks,” Caradoc said.

“And I don’t want to waste time forcing her to draw a map when we could just follow her,” Arthur said, impatience surfacing.

“Your freedom depends on the successful capture or death of Alvarr,” Uther said to Caradoc.

“Naturally,” Caradoc said.

“Your freedom only,” Uther said.

Caradoc grimaced her acceptance of Uther’s terms.

“Be out before dawn,” Uther ordered Arthur.

“Thank you,” Arthur exhaled, signaling two guards to stay on Caradoc and half the others to follow him—and igniting a subdued flurry in the Hall as nobles shuffled, commenting on the Prince’s exit and glancing at the King. The Council conferred in twos and threes, some more positive than others—Uther stared past Caradoc at the threshold through which Arthur had left—he shot his gaze at Caradoc, wary, probative, accusing. He stood and the Hall went mute, parting down the middle as Uther proceeded out the door. Murmurs resumed, a few suspicious looks thrown at Caradoc, against which she stood unperturbed.

But the scrutiny from Gaius she noticed. And returned—she sized him up like a buyer who knows the merchant is trying to cheat her.

Gaius looked away first.

He slowly, self-consciously meandered away from the Hall, avoiding further eye contact with anyone.

Once back at his chambers, he opened the door carefully, hesitantly—all was as he’d left it, except for Merlin, who sat in a corner, eyes closed, head cocked to the side. He still wore a knight’s armor, but rested his helmet in his lap and sported a handsome, well-cropped beard.

“What are you doing?” Gaius said impatiently.

“Listening,” Merlin said. “I have to know which way to go. I don’t think Arthur realizes how hard this is—at least, this far away—once we’re closer—”

“Will you be able to get closer?”

“I think so.” Merlin stood, nearly dropping the helmet. “It’s far—sort of—but they’re loud—excited—they have the spell.”

“Then Morgana must be there, too,” Gaius cautioned.

“She’ll play the victim,” Merlin said. “Unless . . . ”

“Unless she drinks the potion herself,” Gaius said.

A possibility Merlin believed—and hated believing. He played with the helmet in his hands. “You don’t think Ninaeve—or Ninianne—would really hurt Cameliard, do you? They know—they have to know—that my Destiny is with Arthur.”

“Nimueh didn’t—or she didn’t care.”

“Yeah, but they’re not Nimueh.”

“They’re Nimueh’s sisters.”

Noting Merlin’s predictable surprise, Gaius couldn’t help adding, “Didn’t Blaise tell you?”

“No.” The word caught on Merlin’s tongue. As he spoke, the door opened, startling both of them. Arthur propped himself just inside the threshold.

“Are you waiting for a formal invitation?” Arthur said; then, “What’s on your face?”

“A disguise,” Merlin said, and although still affected by Gaius’s news, he was also happy to see Arthur’s habitual flabbergasted annoyance. In the doorway, Arthur faltered, wanting to say more—words at war in his throat—until he gave up.

“Let’s go,” Arthur ordered, walking off.

Merlin knew he had to leave; he gave Gaius a farewell glance; “Be very careful, Merlin,” Gaius said; then Merlin was at Arthur’s heels.

In the courtyard, a hundred knights were gathered, most mounted and ready to ride. Clouds covered the sky, augmenting every speck of light and distorting the hour—Merlin guessed it was well past midnight. At their approach, Sir Lamorack broke off from the group and ran forward.

“Sire, we await your command,” he reported.

“Thank you, Lamorack,” Arthur said.

Lamorack bowed his head and went back to his horse, and Arthur and Merlin continued on to where Caradoc waited, two knights standing by as her guards, a third handing over her weapons, and a servant holding the reins of a nearby horse. She was fixing her dagger onto her low back—the knight watching distrustfully—when she noticed Arthur and Merlin.

“Who’s this?” she asked, indicating Merlin.

“Your personal guard—you ride with him,” Arthur said.

“You know I work better on my own.”

“You don’t have a choice today.”

“Fine,” Caradoc grumbled.

“Everyone!” Arthur called out. “Saddle-up!”

A servant with another horse appeared at Arthur’s side. The knight who’d returned Caradoc’s weapons hurried over to mount his horse—he was one of the few who still had to—but Caradoc’s two guards moved to a post outside the doors of the castle.

Merlin pulled himself onto the saddle behind Caradoc, closing his eyes and reaching out with his mind to feel the chattering of Alvarr’s camp.

“Just take the road,” he whispered to Caradoc, pretending he wasn’t nervous. Arthur must believe this is so easy, he thought—and for Arthur, he wanted it to be. But he would have to reorient himself regularly.

“You might have to stall,” he added. “Here and there.”

“Noted,” Caradoc said quietly. “I think the reins are yours.”

Right—Merlin took the reins and maneuvered the horse beside Arthur. They trotted through the ranks of knights, who, with a barked command from Sir Lamorack, filed behind. A few eyeballs dared peek out from windows as they passed, riding from Camelot into the unborn dawn.

 

Through his chamber window, Uther heard the off-beat rhythm of hooves on cobblestone; he sat in front of a perpetually set-to-start-but-never-begun chess game, fingers tented at his lips. Distance soon muffled the receding horses, and the ominous quietude of the hour resettled.

A dying fire was the sole illumination—but it served only to highlight the coldness of the rest of the room. Uther, half-dressed, rose, went to his wardrobe, and methodically removed the false bottom, the jewelry box, Igraine’s book.

Ceremoniously, he unwrapped the cloth around it; he folded the cloth and placed it on Igraine’s jewels; he held the book between his palms, as in prayer—was that her scent, lingering still? He’d never opened the book. Even at her death, he simply could not disrespect her privacy.

And circumstances be damned, he wasn’t going to now. The book was here, in his hands—that’s all that mattered.

He gently re-wrapped the book in its cloth.

~

 

Dawn found Arthur and his men on the road, out of sight of Camelot. No one spoke, except for sporadic, muted complaints about Caradoc’s directions. She and Merlin rode in front, beside Arthur, Merlin concentrating on the mental noises of Alvarr’s camp, which grew with the proximity, but honing in on them still took specific effort.

Arthur signaled a halt; he turned to Caradoc (Merlin). Merlin’s lips moved, and Caradoc pointed in a direction off the road.

Arthur signaled again—partly to Sir Lamorack—and the troops split. Arthur led most toward where Caradoc had pointed, but Lamorack and a dozen others continued down the road, sharp eyes monitoring Arthur’s position.

Merlin had a respite. He took in the surrounding trees, the sparse patches between with little conglomerations of stones filled with ashes, marking the spots of long dead fires—the road was a major one, used by travelers and traders. A few paths branched off, often turning into trails leading to the homes of woodsmen (and once upon a time, witches—or rumored witches—healing women who lived alone. But Uther’s Purge had ended all of them, only a few tenacious stories remaining). Merlin peered ahead and around, studying the land’s layout, and trying to orient their position with Alvarr’s—when there was Ninianne, gliding between the trees, parallel to Arthur’s men—her crisp red dress almost like a guiding light.

Almost.

Ninianne jerked when she felt Merlin’s gaze boring down on her. _Oh dear,_ Elayne said to Ninianne, couched in the far-off elsewhere of Priestesses. _No one was supposed to see you, not even the great Merlin Emrys._

_Mind your place, Elayne_ , Ninianne said, their conversation unbeknownst to Merlin. Ninianne continued along, feeling the air, the leaves, the spirits of the horses—she watched Merlin watching her, beneath his helmet an uncertainty invading his eyes.

Arthur, a furrow growing between his brows, noticed Merlin staring off at nothing; Caradoc noticed Arthur, and cleared her throat to get Merlin’s attention.

“It’s a ways yet,” Merlin whispered, losing sight of Ninianne.

“We keep going,” Caradoc announced to Arthur.

Merlin closed his eyes and listened for Alvarr’s camp—he had to put Ninianne, and her possible motives, out of his mind and focus. The Cauldron was dangerous, Morgana was dangerous, Alvarr was dangerous, and Blaise’s welfare tenuous.

Easily, he picked up the camp—he wondered if he could count the sorcerers—if any could feel him. He closed his thoughts, letting a river of sensation—sounds, smells, an aftertaste in his mouth, the feel of Caradoc and their horse—wash his own chattering mind away. He caught Alvarr’s voice, chanting. The spell had already begun.

 

Steam wafted upwards from the Cauldron. The sound of the boiling liquid within mingled with the trilling of birds, the rousing camp, scuttling insects, and the hurried routine of the excited, deferential youth who assisted Alvarr by maintaining the fire.

Sometimes the steam created a mirage—a wavering reality where time moved slowly here and quickly there. Or maybe it was just Morgana—no one else stared at the ritual with her detached wonderment. She let herself succumb to the moment—everyone but Alvarr and Enmyria avoided her anyway.

And for one second, Morgana felt _everything_ : the wood of the trees and kindling; the earth beneath her, dust rising and settling with the movement of feet, dirt laced with growing roots; she felt the birds, the beasts, insects; rocks and stones and ore; and the Cauldron, drawing on the air around it, the water within it, the wood and the fire and earth beneath it—weaving and molding it all together at Alvarr’s direction.

The moment terrified her—she panicked, jolting herself from her seat. She’d never felt anything like it before; she acted as if she’d stood up in boredom—after all, Alvarr needed no further help from her. And wouldn’t ever again.

She wandered the fully wakened camp, watching Alvarr’s people like an intruder: an older man finishing his porridge, a woman shaking off a blanket—there weren’t enough tents for all the people, and many slept out in the open. Another woman braided her daughter’s hair, several other children running about, staring at Morgana as she passed. A few fighting men sharpened their blades.

When Arthur found the camp, these people would die.

If Alvarr succeeded, many in Camelot would die.

_Does the quest for power always involve death?_ Morgana thought.

“What?” A boy, maybe fourteen, stepped from a tightly-clustered group of trees, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Yes,” said a woman behind Morgana—old, nearly toothless, sitting on a rock and leaning against a walking stick.

“Did you—” the boy said to Morgana. “I heard—”

“I was just looking for some water,” Morgana said, realizing she’d wandered to the edge of the camp.

“Won’t find it here,” the old woman said, heaving herself from the rock with difficulty. “Come help yer old Gran, child.”

The boy rushed over. Morgana felt awkward, exposed—she glanced fearfully at the woods, wanting to go back to Alvarr, wishing Elayne would appear—even Bridget or Enmyria she’d welcome, just to be with someone she knew.

_What's power?_ a woman’s voice said in her head. Not Elayne. In the forest depths, Morgana saw the dark-haired, red-clad woman, staring with powerful, penetrating eyes. Morgana dared not approach her.

Morgana looked toward the camp. The boy and his grandmother hobbled along, not giving her a second thought. Morgana could run (to where?)—Uther would blame Alvarr for her disappearance and give her up for dead (would he?). She’d be nobody thus could be anybody—she’d be free.

The woman was gone, the forest indifferent. The boy, gentle and conscientious, and his grandmother, walking with pain, were out of sight. There was nothing for Morgana at Alvarr’s camp, but still she hesitated—torn with the itch of unfinished business.

 

Satisfied, elated, complete—Alvarr had just finished the first stage of Ceridwen’s spell when shouts went up. Not the warnings of scouts, but alarmed cries from within the camp itself.

“No no no!” Alvarr protested the rising cacophony. “They can’t be here! Not yet—it’s not done!” He spoke to no one in particular, but the assistant glanced from Alvarr to the camp to the Cauldron, hoping for a sign of what came next.

Enmyria ran up to Alvarr: “Arthur and three dozen men, at least,” she said.

“Guard the Cauldron!” Alvarr commanded. Enmyria handed him a sword, brandishing her own as she stationed herself beside Alvarr, both prepared to face an onslaught. The assistant and another man took positions around the Cauldron, protecting it from all sides.

The assistant held only a rock, having no fighting experience.

In another part of the camp, Morgana had dropped her cup of water. Although startled by the sudden din, she felt no surprise, only a sense of finality. Two knights charged forward, cutting the anchoring ropes of the tent in front of her. A midwife—who’d given her the water—slipped out from the collapsing sides, a dagger in her hand and a small boy clinging to her skirts. Three other knights crashed past, swords in one hand, reins in the other.

“Wait!” Morgana cried, unnoticed—the two knights trampled the tent and advanced toward the midwife and boy. Morgana couldn’t tell if the knights recognized her. Somewhere, a dog barked.

“Wait!” she helplessly cried again. A caterwaul chorus broke above the battle sounds—a group of Alvarr’s men—on foot—charged forward. Morgana watched. One man’s eyes flashed a golden yellow—a spell that spooked the horses, which reared and shook, dislodging their riders. The horses bolted and Alvarr’s men leapt upon the knights, six against two, wrenching weapons and armor away. The man with magic stood apart, concentrating—his eyes flashed several times, glowed for a few seconds—a sudden yelp from the locked pile of struggling men—all jumped back except for the two knights. They screamed in pain and burst into flame, fire gorging their bodies.

“Warn us if yer going to do that!” one man said to the sorcerer.

“Hmph,” the midwife snorted with satisfaction. “Serves ‘em right.” She gave Morgana a look—disgusted, threatening—as if to say, _serve you right too_.

“Take that boy and run. Or I’ll kill you myself,” Morgana found herself saying. “ _Now!_ ” She had no love for Uther’s men; but she held no ill-will towards Arthur’s men. Burning the knights alive had a certain justice—a balance—to it; it was also cruel and unnecessary, and it cost the sorcerer his life. His diverted attention gave his enemies an opening, and he now lay on the ground with the bolt from a crossbow in his neck. Another of Alvarr’s men lay dead, while the rest fought against Lamorack and his men.

Morgana drew her dagger. The midwife and boy were gone. People were running and crying and fighting. And dead. Knights were dead. And fighting. Morgana had no side.

_Elayne!_ Morgana hurried toward the Cauldron—where else was there to be? She dodged and evaded, her dagger for defense. _Elayne, what do I do?_ Camelot was a lie; so was Alvarr’s camp. Despite her aid, and the risks she’d taken—and Alvarr’s overt gratitude—this camp had given her the opposite of sanctuary.

_Elayne, please!_

_Pay attention, girl._ Not Elayne—the woman in the woods.

_To what?_ Morgana demanded.

_To everything._

The Cauldron was surrounded.

Alvarr’s men encircled it; Camelot knights arced around three quarters of it; all fought. Armor and a few bright red cloaks distinguished Camelot’s knights from Alvarr’s men. Arthur pressed through the melee, overcoming any who tried to block his path.

Alvarr punched his hand forward—Arthur dove to the side in a somersault, dodging the magic attack. Behind Arthur, a struggling pair flew upward, smacking against a tree at just such an angle that each broke an arm, the thick crack of their bones audible above the fighting.

Three of Alvarr’s men rushed Arthur as he rose. Morgana heard the squelch of sword through flesh—but Arthur’s fight wasn’t close enough—she was hearing the sounds of death right beside her.

“My Lady,” someone was saying.

Morgana stepped toward the Cauldron; a hand grasped her shoulder, stopping her. Nearby, Enmyria fought a strange, dark-haired, black-clad woman. Neither wore armor. Enmyria’s clothes were sliced in multiple spots, red-brown stains forming. The other woman had a light bruise beneath one eye.

A crack: on the other side of the Cauldron, a tree branch fell on a Camelot knight, disorienting him long enough for a family—father with a pierced shoulder, mother, teenage girl with a bleeding scalp, probably from hair being pulled out—to escape. Two people jumped on the knight—Hardolf and Bridget—

Alvarr was choking a knight, knife jammed in the knight’s kidney—

Morgana’s dagger dangled in her limp hand. She felt no fear. A knight fought behind her.

Again, Alvarr tried to throw Arthur using magic—Arthur was quicker—

Enmyria was gripping her sword at a low angle—a missed swing; the other woman sliced downward, cutting into Enmyria’s arm—

Alvarr’s outstretched hand had a knife planted through the palm, to Alvarr’s astonishment. Unfortunately for him, Arthur had adapted.

Enmyria ran; the woman chased—

A man tried to ambush Arthur from behind—Arthur bent, ramming his elbow into the man’s stomach, and when the man folded, Arthur slammed the hilt of his sword against the back of the man’s head—

The Cauldron rumbled. Morgana swore she felt a tremor, but no one else noticed—

A tree in front of Enmyria: without changing speed, she planted one foot against the trunk, then the other—for leverage—and flipped through the air backward, over the woman in black, landing gracefully behind her—and finding the woman’s sword in her belly. The woman in black had simply turned around, prepared and unimpressed. She pushed her sword further into Enmyria, wrenching it upward.

“ _Enmyria!_ ” Alvarr screamed.

The Cauldron overflowed, minute tremors careening through the ground—fighting came to a stand-still. The Cauldron cracked. Liquid spurted high, hissing. All the whorls and wards etched onto the side glowed fiercely, the light fattening, erasing distinctions so that it looked like the Cauldron might, at any moment, become a giant ball of blue-white light. _Crk_. The light—the whorls and wards—vanished. The Cauldron shattered, its contents plunging to the ground as it collapsed upon itself.

“ _No!”_ Alvarr screamed.

“It’s over,” Arthur announced.

Alvarr, sweating, panting, undone, stared at the pile of wet rubble. Many of his people realized the futility of fighting and absconded, either stepping back discreetly while everyone hung in muted suspense, or—like Bridget and Hardolf—running as fast as they could before any knight could react.

Alvarr turned from the destroyed Cauldron to accuse Arthur, “You used—”

Arthur punched him in the face.

“Surrender,” Arthur said.

Alvarr laughed, bringing the back of his left, sword-bearing hand to his broken, bleeding nose. His right hand still had Arthur’s knife in it. Eyes bleary, Alvarr laughed.

He lunged at Arthur.

And Arthur killed him.

“Clear the camp,” Arthur ordered, Alvarr’s body at his feet.

“Wait—Arthur!” Morgana rushed toward him—she glanced at Alvarr’s corpse, feeling nothing but a foregone conclusion—and that overwhelming certainty, realizing that she’d _known_ how this would end _,_ stabbed at her. She buried it, focusing on the moment before her.

“There are children here,” she said.

“Sorcerer bastards,” a knight said.

“You don’t know that,” she said to Arthur. “It’s not their fault what their parents do—and what if everyone here isn’t a sorcerer?”

The knight scoffed; Arthur hesitated, and Morgana pressed her advantage:

“Abandoned, starving—would you condemn desperate people who had nowhere else to go?”

“They had somewhere else to go,” Caradoc was at Arthur’s side. “They chose Alvarr, and his schemes.”

“Arrest anyone who’s left,” Arthur shouted. He looked down at Alvarr’s body “Bring him,” he said.

Arthur turned to Caradoc, debating whether to order her to leave; she regarded him defiantly, daring him to.

“Come on,” Arthur placed a hand on Morgana’s elbow. “Let’s go home.”

“Who is she?” Morgana asked, glancing back as they walked away. A fully-armored Camelot knight had joined Caradoc, and she was saying something to him.

“A friend,” Arthur said.

Morgana barely registered his reply, for something else Arthur had said hit her.

“Arthur?” Morgana asked.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” _Where’s home?_

 

~*~

Outside the dungeon cell supposedly occupied by Merlin, Sirs Cadoc and Madoc blocked Gaius’s path.

“Sorry, Gaius,” Cadoc said. “No one’s allowed to see Merlin. Not even Prince Arthur.”

Gaius’s eyebrow twitched—amused impatience—and he clasped his hands as he halted.

“The King understands,” Gaius said. “And I’ve already made it this far.”

Down the dungeon corridor, one of the guards in the anteroom shrugged indifferently to Cadoc’s questioning stare.

“We don’t have any new orders from the King,” Madoc said.

“Did he say anything about orders from the King?” Blaise asked from inside the cell.

Gaius stepped closer. Blaise was lying on the bench against the far wall of the cell, his closed eyes opening briefly to note Gaius’s presence.

“We have nothing to say to each other,” Blaise said.

Gaius motioned for privacy. Madoc hesitated, but Cadoc nodded his assent, leading Madoc to a respectful distance.

“Here,” Gaius said quietly, making sure no one was watching and pulling a pouch from his robes. “This is for you.”

Blaise turned his head to look, but made no other move. From the pouch, Gaius took an apple and a ring. He held the ring against the apple so that, should they look, the guards would not see it. Gaius reached his arm through the bars. Blaise watched impassively.

“Just take it,” Gaius said.

Blaise sat up. “Is that a note of fear I hear?” he taunted and stood.

“It will help you,” Gaius whispered.

“You? Help?”

“Why else come down here? I know Merlin’s not here.”

Blaise considered the question with prejudice. He reached for the apple; Gaius glanced furtively at the guards.

The apple was perfectly ripe and freshly washed, the ring cold. Blaise fingered the ring, rotating it—recognizing it. Leaving the apple on the cell bench, Blaise examined the ring by the grey light of the small, lone, grated window.

“Where?—Have you always had this?” Blaise said.

“No,” Gaius said, momentarily relieved that Blaise was finally listening. “Lunette—” how to explain? “She was trying to get it to you—she had to detour.”

“Did you mourn her?” Blaise sneered, interpreting Gaius’s stumbling response.

“She was a friend,” Gaius snapped.

“How many—”

“But all you see is a chance to blame,” Gaius interrupted. “The wrong person. I mourn her more than you do.”

Blaise clenched his jaw, anger twitching his facial muscles. He closed the ring inside his fist.

“How many of us were your friends?” Blaise said with sinister control. “How many of us watched as you stood by Uther, believed you when you insisted that things weren’t that bad, stared in disbelief as you renounced them—”

“I stopped practicing magic,” Gaius said. “I never renounced anyone.”

“You gave up a hobby in the face of persecution—you saved your own skin and damned everyone born with it!” Blaise’s voice had risen; Gaius glanced fearfully down the corridor. Only Cadoc and Madoc gave him any notice, but they stayed where they were.

Gaius pressed against the bars, the closest to confidentiality he could get. “That ring makes you invisible, _but_ —” Gaius cut off Blaise’s emerging retort— “if you’d rather stay and judge me, it’s your own head. Just remember,” he let go of the bars, “you lauded Uther’s law far more than I ever did.”

Gaius turned.

“Yes,” Blaise said, barely audible—an admission wrought with years of guilt.

Gaius stopped.

“I was wrong,” Blaise said.

Gaius walked away.

~

 

Grey clouds darkened the afternoon, a gentle mist permeating the courtyard as Arthur and his knights returned. Uther waited atop the stairs to the castle. Arthur, sharing the saddle with Morgana, noted his father’s presence, but turned his horse in a tight circle, to survey his men: Caradoc and Merlin were right behind him, Caradoc already dismounting; behind Arthur’s company, Sir Lamorack escorted the prisoners; and bringing up the rear, another company of knights. Lastly, Arthur watched as the horse carrying Alvarr’s body was trotted forward.

Uther descended the steps and Arthur dismounted; he lifted Morgana out of the saddle, and seeing the look on her face, whispered, _you’re safe now_. Then he faced his father.

“Alvarr and his camp, Sire.”

“Very good.” Uther regarded Alvarr’s corpse and the ragged prisoners of all ages, and said to Caradoc, “So you’ve decided to join us again.”

“Is your word not to be trusted, my lord?” Caradoc replied.

“Morgana’s safe,” Arthur said.

“I see that,” Uther said. By now the courtyard had filled with squires and servants and more knights. “Clean up,” Uther said to Arthur. “We have other matters to discuss.”

 

Across the courtyard, Gaius and Gwen stood together, watching Arthur’s return. As soon as Uther stepped back up toward the castle door, Gwen ran over and threw her arms around Morgana. From Gaius’s perspective, the expression on Morgana’s face was one of distaste, as though Gwen were a stranger. However, another person might have called the expression uncertainty.

A soft change in the air—out of the corner of his eye, Gaius saw Ninianne now standing beside him.

“Do you ever feel guilty about Morgana?” Ninianne asked, though by her tone, she may well have been posing the question to herself.

“No,” Gaius said. Arthur had watched Morgana and Gwen enter the castle, then walked off with Merlin and Caradoc. “As far as Morgana is concerned,” Gaius continued, “I have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“You hobbled her,” Ninianne said.

“I protected her. Despite her destiny.” Did no one else see Ninianne? Or was everyone too preoccupied to care who he talked to?

“Her destiny was on the Blessed Isle,” Ninianne said. “Even if Nimueh refused to believe our time was passing.”

Gaius had heard there’d been disagreement between the sisters, but this was the first glimpse he’d ever seen of it.

“Perhaps,” Gaius said, “given how Morgause turned out, it’s just as well.”

“Perhaps.”

Gaius again wondered if she was addressing him. Ninianne continued:

“You had no idea Morgana and her sisters were our successors—so who divined her fate for you?”

Once upon a time, Gaius would have answered the question unreservedly, trusting that the Priestess acted for the good of the world. Now he was buried by his own suspicions, determined to find a trap in Ninianne’s words. Was he wiser now? The question flitted like a Fury in the recesses of his mind, and pride—or fear—held his tongue.

“I gave you Morgause,” Gaius said instead.

“Because our discretion is absolute, and because you knew she’d have magic—you thought she deserved to fulfill her potential. But Morgause happened before Uther changed—how loyal, that your kindness turns on the whims of a King.” Ninianne bored into Gaius: “What makes you think you know Morgana’s destiny?”

“The King will not welcome your presence if someone sees you,” Gaius said.

“Your problem.”

“Nimueh didn’t believe your claim about Morgana’s destiny—you just said so.” Gaius felt Ninianne’s disdain like a heat wave across his soul.

“Kilgarah has his own designs,” Ninianne said. “You know better than to take a dragon’s word blindly. And Merlin is not the only person in Camelot, nor is he the most important. Protecting the subject of an over-glorified rumor absolves you of nothing.”

He sensed her vanish like a weight off the space beside him. Many of the knights were gone from the courtyard, as were their horses. Some knights loitered, but mostly it was the guards at their posts, and servants hovering inconspicuously, and squires slowly leading away the remaining horses. So Gaius returned to his chambers, praying that Merlin was safe.

 ~

 

Fortunately, Merlin and Blaise had exchanged armor quickly. Barely were his boots on, his threadbare jacket in hand, when Merlin heard voices outside his cell—Cadoc’s, then Taran’s—another’s, indiscernible but demanding. Merlin looked to Blaise to see if he knew what might be going on, but Blaise had disappeared.

The key clinked in the cell door.

“Let’s go,” a large knight said. Behind him, Cadoc, Madoc, and Taran concealed their relief at Blaise’s absence; three more knights stood by dispassionately.

“You’re free, Merlin,” Cadoc explained.

“Right.” Where could Blaise have gone? Merlin walked past Cadoc, muttering _thanks_ —Cadoc met his eyes worriedly but said nothing further. As the knights escorted him out of the dungeons, Merlin calmed the confusion inside himself—wherever Blaise was, it wasn’t caught.

In the dungeon anteroom, Merlin and the knights paused: down the stairs filed the prisoners from Alvarr’s camp, wet, single file, hands bound, each roped to the one behind—including children—and escorted by an equal number of knights. They passed by wordlessly, some stoic, others afraid.

Merlin ran. Up the stairs, maneuvering between prisoners and rail, out the door, he stopped in the afternoon rain. A heavy, oppressive rain that drenched the implacable knights and beat down on the prisoners still lined up waiting to enter the dungeons. A short, easy run—had someone called his name?—yet Merlin couldn’t coax his lungs to cooperate. He looked around desperately.

Matters to discuss, Uther had said. Arthur would be with him now. Merlin ran to the Great Hall, where guards barred the way—but it wasn’t long before the doors opened.

“How can you stand by and watch?” Morgana hissed at Arthur. Caradoc kept apace on Arthur’s other side, while Gwen trailed the three. The doors to the hall stayed open behind them.

“What happened?” Merlin asked.

“The King has made his decision,” Arthur said. No elaboration. Arthur tried to maintain a neutral expression, but Merlin knew that whatever had been said, Arthur agreed with Morgana. Remembering her objections in the camp, Merlin knew that he probably agreed with her too. He looked away; Gwen answered quietly:

“If the prisoners renounce magic and swear fidelity to Uther, they won’t be executed.”

“Where does that leave those born with magic?” Morgana said.

“Morgana,” Arthur said, avoiding Merlin’s gaze, “at least some have a chance.”

“And you?” Morgana turned on Caradoc. “What would your King have done?”

“I don’t have a King,” Caradoc said. “But these people supported Alvarr, and Alvarr wanted to overthrow a kingdom. Leodogran would have treated them as defeated enemies—which is what they are.”

“How enlightened,” Morgana snorted. Three of Uther’s council, Ulfius, Andronic, and Oswald, exited the Hall.

_Anything Uther does is always the wrong thing, is it, Morgana_? Blaise said remotely. Merlin pretended he hadn’t overheard—had Blaise meant for him to hear?—and focused on the council, Ulfius and Oswald watching Morgana pointedly, Andronic wanting to say something to Arthur.

_You admired him_ , Morgana realized.

_He used to be admirable. Where was Igraine’s book?_

Merlin jerked up at that, but Morgana didn’t notice—she was staring lividly back at Ulfius. The three council members walked away first, and Morgana turned with disgust down the opposite corridor. Gwen followed apologetically.

_Uther’s wardrobe_ , Merlin heard Morgana say.

“What about Blaise?” Merlin asked aloud, watching as Gwen caught up to Morgana and the two disappeared around the corner.

“Blaise still has an edict from a Priestess,” Arthur said.

“That’s secondary,” Caradoc said. “Uther has Sir Lamorack searching Camelot.”

“But,” Merlin lowered his voice, “what are _you_ going to do about Blaise?”

“What can I do?” Arthur said, marching off in the direction the council had taken. Caradoc, sharing Merlin’s concern, accompanied him. Merlin peeked into the Hall, where Uther sat on his throne, hands tented before his face in rigid, regal contemplation. As if provoked, he peered up and met Merlin’s gaze. Merlin awkwardly bowed his head, hoping it was deferential enough, and hurried to catch up with Arthur.

 

~*~

Most of the prisoners recanted. The morning began with the executions of those who had not—or could not. The air was humid, the atmosphere resigned. Uther pronounced his justice from the castle balcony, flanked by his Council, and Arthur, standing in the background with his arms crossed. A crowd had congregated dutifully below.

A brown-haired man, not old, not young, was first. Gaius watched from the outskirts of the crowd as the man knelt, and the executioner raised his axe.

“Isn’t this familiar,” Blaise’s voice said, close on Gaius’s right.

“Why are you still here?” Gaius kept his eyes forward. So the invisibility ring worked.

“Where am I supposed to go?” Blaise asked.

“Home?”

“If I return to Cameliard, Uther can use me as a reason to attack—and my brother—even if— . . . He’s still my brother—I’m not doing that to him.”

On the platform, an old woman, face bruised, stared vengefully at Uther as knights pressed her to her knees.

“And unfortunately, there’s still the matter of Merlin,” Blaise said.

“Not even a Priestess can make you teach magic when you’re dead,” Gaius said.

“Not that some wouldn’t have tried,” Ninianne said, standing visibly on Gaius’s left. “Be sociable, Blaise, no one will see you.”

Blaise twisted Lunette’s ring—within a single breath he waxed into view, wearing the clothes in which he’d come to Camelot, averting his eyes from the executioner’s stage.

“Magic is not what that boy needs to learn,” Blaise grumbled to no one in particular.

“He’s not a boy,” Gaius said.

“He acts like one,” Ninianne said. “Your debt was fulfilled in Cameliard, Blaise. You have no further obligations to Merlin or my sister.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?” Blaise said.

“No,” Ninianne replied.

“No?” Gaius said.

“Merlin was not the point.” Ninianne latched her attention onto Arthur, up on the balcony. His face stoic, he watched the next execution, watched his own feet as the body was hauled off and the next prisoner mounted the steps. Arthur looked up across the yard to Morgana, standing at her chamber window. Their eyes met. The prisoner raved a curse at Uther and Arthur turned to listen, his expression never changing.

Morgana’s expression was one of coalescing ire. She perused the crowd until she spotted Ninianne, standing next to Gaius, and grew confused. Ninianne doffed an acknowledgment.

“Tell me, Blaise, what would you do about Morgana?” Ninianne asked, holding Morgana’s gaze.

“Teach her.” Blaise looked sorrowfully up at Morgana. “Or at least stop lying to her,” he glared at Gaius.

“You mean, put her in greater danger?” Gaius retorted. “Or give her enough to become a greater danger?”

“Of course,” Blaise said. “How can you tell others the truth when you spend so much time lying to yourself?” He twisted the ring so that the stone was inside his palm, and faded instantly from sight. Gaius sighed.

Ninianne stared straight forward, a subtle, satisfied smile on her lips.

 

_That’s it?_

_It’s enough, Elayne. Morgana has what she needs. Or are you complaining now on your own behalf?_

 

Blaise reported to Morgana’s chambers. He had called out to her—her alone—and she had answered. He entered invisibly when she opened her door to send Gwen home; when she latched the door shut, Blaise undid the ring.

“You’re next, if Uther finds you,” Morgana said, returning to the window for the final execution.

“You may turn me in, if you wish,” Blaise said.

He trusts me, Morgana thought. With irritation—one more person who knew her better than she knew herself. In the courtyard below, servants hauled off the poor man’s body, and Uther said something more before quitting the balcony. Morgana looked at Blaise, wondering if he was afraid, but only sadness fell from his face. He fiddled with a ring on his finger—the same ring Lunette had given her months ago, for her to deliver to him. She had lost it before figuring out how.

And now Blaise stood before her, with it on his finger. She thought about asking him how he’d come by it, but it seemed such a natural outcome—and rather unimportant.

“So Alvarr would have received no more mercy from Leodogran than he did from Uther,” Morgana said.

“Alvarr enchanted Leodogran’s only daughter—his only living child,” Blaise replied. “Leodogran gave Alvarr shelter, protection, and acceptance—Alvarr wanted more—did you also think I would love him just because he has magic?”

“Do you also think I’m corrupt just because I have magic,” Morgana retorted. “Merlin told you I was conspiring with Alvarr, didn’t he?”

“I didn’t take his word for it,” Blaise said. “Alvarr could be very convincing—Cameliard believed him.”

“Well,” Morgana pushed the half-formed word through her lips. “Thank you for coming to see me first,” she turned away, watching Arthur standing on the balcony as the crowd slowly dispersed. She couldn’t see his expression.

“I frightened you—I shouldn’t have,” Blasie said. “I thought—I assumed—presumed—”

Morgana waited. Merlin walked onto the balcony and stood beside Arthur.

“Your mother had the Sight,” Blaise said. “It didn’t occur to me that you would be surprised.”

“She had the Sight,” Morgana repeated. With a final glance, she stepped away from the window. “That’s enough for Uther.”

“Uther didn’t kill her—he never knew. No one knew, not even your father.”

“Except you.” She sat down at her mirror, feeling the truth of it. Pay attention, the Priestess had said. In the reflection Morgana noticed Morgause’s bracelet beneath her bed. Retrieving it, she closed her eyes, nestling deep inside herself as she knelt on the stones. She called out to her instinct—Blaise’s time was limited. Any question was better than none.

“Tell me about my sisters,” she said, opening her eyes.

“’Sisters’,” Blaise said. “Plural.” A question and conclusion at once. He sat down in another chair and Morgana went back to her mirror, toying with the bracelet as Blaise talked.

“Elayne is the oldest child of Rhiannon and Gorlois,” Blaise said. “She died, as far as anyone knew, when Tintagel fell. Gorlois was in Camelot at the time—the report of Elayne’s death came from Rhiannon—from your mother.”

“She lied,” Morgana again felt the truth of it.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think she knew what was coming,” Blaise said sadly.

“Why did she tell you the truth?” Morgana said. “Why not my father? Why only you?”

“Because she knew?” Blaise answered helplessly. “Because this—” he indicated her chambers, the castle, Camelot— “here—now.”

“Did you love her?”

“Not in the way you mean. Rhiannon was kind, and perceptive, and stronger than people realized—including herself.”

Morgana bristled at Blaise’s insinuation—as though she couldn’t hear the tone in his voice, or see the way he bore his eyes into her, all to insist, _you’re stronger too_. It was as if he and Elayne were colluding.

“What about Morgause?” Morgana said.

“I don’t know anyone called Morgause,” Blaise said.

“She gave me this bracelet.” Somehow, it mattered.

“Then I can tell you rumors—nothing more.”

Morgana waited.

“Uther met Igraine through your father—this part is fact,” Blaise said. “Gorlois introduced her as his kinswoman. Igraine was also in Camelot when Tintagel fell, instead of your mother.”

“You’re suggesting that Arthur’s mother was my father’s mistress?” Morgana said in disbelief. And yet . . .

“That was the rumor,” Blaise said. “I hate rumors. But when I first came to Camelot, Uther and Igraine were recently wed, and Queen Igraine was sequestered in her chambers, convalescing.”

“From what?”

“No one would say. And since I was newly-apprenticed, Gaius didn’t bring me along. I met the Queen only once she felt better. She felt better,” Blaise hesitated, reconsidered, began again:

“One night, a servant summoned me in a panic—go to the Queen’s chambers. He was mistaken—I was told to go away, there was no emergency, and Lunette—she was Igraine’s companion—was more than capable of assisting Gaius, if need be. I disobeyed. I stayed in the corridor, in case—as close as the guards would let me—until Lunette came out with Uther and told me to escort the King to his chambers. I had servants bring cider, but Uther didn’t drink. He just sat. Devastated.

“In the morning—early—a servant came from Gaius. The Queen was recuperating. As soon as we entered her chambers, Uther ran to her side. Gaius asked to speak privately with Uther—that was how I met Queen Igraine. We were alone in the room.

“She stared at me—studied me, even. Then she asked me to fetch her jewelry box. The bracelet was inside. She gave it to me. I recognized Gorlois’s crest—”

“This isn't my family crest,” Morgana said, indicating the crest on the bracelet.

“It’s your father’s crest,” Blaise said. “When Rhiannon died, he started using hers.”

Morgana tried to absorb this information as Blaise continued.

“Igraine ordered me to deliver the bracelet to Gaius, and she did so in a way that told me not to ask any questions or there would be consequences. I hid the bracelet in my sleeve, Uther and Gaius returned, Gaius and I left. I gave him the bracelet in private, as soon as I could. Gauis said nothing, and that night disappeared until dawn. No one spoke further on it. That’s all I know.”

“What do you think?” Morgana asked.

“I think you and Arthur deserve an explanation,” Blaise said.

“In other words,” Morgana said, “Igraine’s illness was a child not Uther’s, and she gave birth that night. Of course this child had to vanish to protect Uther’s pride, so Gaius, like a good little minion, gave it away. Igraine sent the bracelet along so that, wherever it was hidden, the child would know who its father was. Morgause had the bracelet, ergo Morgause is this secret child.”

“A fair conclusion,” Blaise admitted. “But I can’t promise you for certain that it’s the truth.”

“No one can give me anything for certain,” Morgana said. “I’m getting used to it.” She stood—the audience was over.

“Morgana,” Blaise remained seated. “A couple more things. One, I would teach you if I could—and if I could give you more than an empty word, I would protect you. But I’m an exile now—I have nowhere I can go.”

“Nowhere is still safer than here,” Morgana muttered.

“Uther doesn’t know about you—at least you’re not alone.”

Right—Morgana almost laughed with disbelief and disgust.

“The other thing?” she commanded.

“You and Merlin have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions,” Blaise said, matching her tone. “You obviously think Uther forced Igraine to abandon her child—but those of us who were there, who knew them, we know: you never judge Uther and his queen—you judge Igraine and her consort.”

 

~*~

Merlin picked at his dinner, staring at the door of Gaius’s chambers, though for what reason, he couldn’t fathom.

“If you ever see Blaise again,” Gaius said, likewise picking at his dinner, “tell him I’m sorry—he was right.”

“Can’t you tell him yourself?” Merlin asked.

“If there’s justice in this world,” Gaius said, “I won’t have an opportunity. He’ll have safely disappeared somewhere.”

Merlin hated to risk opening this wound further, but he needed to know. “You and Blaise, you were a lot alike, weren’t you? Back then, I mean.”

“No. Not really. But he was the most astute scholar I’ve ever met,” Gaius admitted.

Merlin smiled.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Gaius said.

“I’m sorry, Gaius,” Merlin said. “Really. Because if Blaise can get out of Camelot, he’s not going to risk saying goodbye to me.”

Gaius poked at his food.

 

Uther was dining alone when Morgana entered the great hall. He generally dined alone, the servants his silent company. When she was younger it made her sad to see him so, especially after her father died. A symbol of the isolation of kingship.

Now she saw it as arrogance—a reminder to everyone, especially himself, of his authority.

He watched, chewing his pheasant, as she stood in the entryway.

He watched as she stepped forward—the doors closing behind her—and stopped at the opposite end of the long table.

He watched her as he sipped from his goblet.

“I have a confession,” Morgana broke the silence.

Uther swallowed in response.

“When Bridget—the girl from Alvarr’s camp—showed up at my door—” Morgana began.

Uther sat back in his chair.

Careful, Morgana told herself. “A _third_ time someone snuck into my chambers—I wanted an explanation.”

“Sorcerers don’t have explanations,” Uther said. “Only excuses.”

“I’m sorry we’re not all as wise as you, my lord,” Morgana retorted.

“Did you get an explanation?”

“No,” Morgana said—were the prisoners interrogated? How much would they have told? “They watched me,” Morgana said, “but I was treated like a lost dog that had wandered into camp—Alvarr was focused on his Cauldron.”

Uther rose. “So he had the spell. How did he get it?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana stood her ground as Uther advanced.

“You spent a lot of time in my chambers,” Uther said. “You made sure to spend a lot of time in my chambers.”

“So?” Morgana said. “What’s that to do with anything? You’re not honestly saying you had a magic spell in your chambers—that your beloved wife—”

She stopped herself at the fury filling Uther’s face, her pulse jumping in her throat.

“Your chambers were safe,” she pleaded—Uther was so angry, so certain of betrayal.

“You went willingly,” he said.

“I was sick of being afraid!” This, also, reverberated through her being with the weight of its truth. “I was sick of waiting for something to happen to me—for someone else to do something to me.” She took the last of Uther’s steps for him, meeting his judgment with fierce determination.

“I will not live in fear,” she said.

“Don’t make stupid decisions then.” Uther walked back to his seat, dismissing her with a look before sitting down.

~

 

“Did you take anything from it?” Arthur asked, holding his mother’s book in his hands.

“No,” Caradoc said. “And Blaise wouldn’t have either.”

She was dressed for the road, all black, no mail or shield, but a sword at her hip and a knife at her back. On the table, beside which she stood, lay Arthur’s untouched breakfast. The Prince himself sat in one of the chairs, his shirt loose, his feet bare. Morning light streamed in through every open window, illuminating his chambers.

“There was a spell in here,” Arthur said. “She talks about it,” Arthur flipped to a specific page. “A suitor named Gansguoter gave it to her. ‘A promise of faith.’ He was a sorcerer.”

Caradoc lifted the book from Arthur’s fingers and scanned the passage.

“He was a powerful sorcerer,” Caradoc commented, returning the book. “Maybe he wanted her to feel safe—to prove he wasn’t coercing her—that he never would.” She fiddled with the purple pendant dangling at her chest. “If she ever doubted his intentions, he gave her the means to fight back.”

“Has your unwanted suitor been back?” Arthur asked, wanting to hunt down Eliavres, the sorcerer stalking her, but he suspected she considered it her business.

“Not yet,” she tucked the pendant beneath her blouse. “It doesn’t seem your mother was interested.”

“No.” Arthur stood, placing his mother’s book on the table and reaching for his belt. He finished dressing, and grabbed some food from his plate. “Come, you’re taking a horse, at least for the first leg—I want to know your and Blaise’s plans. You can trust me,” he added, seeing the doubt cross Caradoc’s face. “You have my word.”

Caradoc bowed her head and together they left Arthur’s chambers.

 

By mid-day, almost everything had returned to normal. Normal had changed, however, though not on the surface. And although Merlin’s daily routine had resumed, he no longer felt disparaged or ignored, and he blissfully sharpened Arthur’s swords without using magic.

_Goodbye, Merlin._

Merlin halted, a whetstone halfway down a blade. He looked up—habit—he knew he was alone in Arthur’s chambers—Arthur being with the King on castle business until evening.

_Stay safe, Blaise_ , Merlin replied with relief—Blaise couldn’t return to Cameliard, but he was out of Uther’s reach. At least, for now.

Merlin glanced out the nearest window as a cloud passed before the afternoon sun.

One more thing remained.

~

 

Midnight. Merlin strode up to the pile of rubble that once comprised the Cauldron of Ceridwen. He wore his long, dark-grey coat—a garment that made him feel closer to himself—and breathed in his surroundings. An appropriate meeting place was important, he knew, and he could think of none better than this spot in Alvarr’s ruined camp. The shattered Cauldron shone preternaturally in the moonlight, and weeds were already pushing their way up through the crevices. Merlin toed a shard to the side and it disintegrated—nothing more than a smudge of dust upon the dirt. He was not surprised.

He circled the Cauldron, pleased at his handiwork, that he had succeeded so thoroughly. It had been difficult. He wondered if anyone appreciated just how difficult. The Priestess Ninianne, surely, who would soon arrive—if she had not already.

He felt a shift in the air.

He turned around and took position beside the Cauldron—one side of an arena occupied only a few days ago by Arthur and Alvarr.

“You called,” Ninianne said, standing opposite. “So some things you learn quickly.”

“You came,” Merlin replied.

Ninianne said nothing.

“You’re the Modron,” Merlin said.

No response—not even a flicker.

“Your sister Ninaeve is the Keeper—the Priestess of the Cave.”

Again, nothing.

“Your sister Nimueh was the Priestess of the Blessed Isle.”

“And you want to know if I take her death personally?”

So Ninianne knew. “Arthur was dying!” Merlin said. “You know his Destiny—”

“Arthur was never supposed to have been injured in the first place,” Ninianne snapped. “What exactly do you think your purpose is?”

“My Destiny is to protect Arthur.” Why was he arguing—she had to know this.

“But only so long as your secret is safe?”

“I can’t do my job if Uther executes me, now can I?”

The naked disgust on Ninianne’s face distracted Merlin for a moment—he heard—felt—saw out of the corner of his eye something flying at him. He turned his head—curious—afraid—and instinctively stopped the hatchet with his magic. Only as it hovered in front of his nose did he register what had happened. It dropped to the ground with a soft thud.

“How brave you must be,” Ninianne said, suddenly behind him, so close he could feel her breath on his ear. “To face such a threat.” Her disdain made his skin crawl.

“Nimueh didn’t listen,” Merlin insisted hoarsely, trying to salvage the confrontation.

“ _She_ didn’t listen?”

“ _My life_ for Arthur’s,” he whirled. “Not my mother’s. That was the deal.”

“You fear the executioner, but will fall on a sword without hesitation?” she said sardonically. He had no response—he felt small, outmatched.

“Tell me, ‘Emrys’,” she said, as though the name were a joke, “Do you dictate to a merchant the price of his wares?”

Emrys. Yes. That was exactly who he was. Merlin met her eyes.

“You’re just like Uther,” she sneered. “You think you dictate terms to the Gods. He thought a son could be bought—a curse lifted—with a pile of gold. When Nimueh returned it—”

“What do you mean a curse?”

Ninianne paused—Merlin realized he shouldn’t have interrupted. She considered her words now.

“There was no curse,” she said. “People chose to see conspiracies in coincidences.”

“People thought Uther—or Arthur’s mother—was cursed?” Merlin pressed. He walked a blade’s edge—Ninianne was choosing her revelations carefully. She circled him, evaluating, judging.

“Some said that Igraine had been cursed to bear no more children.” Ninianne spoke casually, now circling the destroyed Cauldron. “Some said there was a prophecy that her child would be a powerful ruler. Some said the Gods wished to reclaim the land—to cleanse it after the Roman infestation.” She stopped, once again at Merlin’s ear. “But the Gods do not see power the way Kings and Princes do—Nimueh forgot that.”

She turned to leave, audience over.

“Ninianne,” Merlin called. “You haven’t answered my question.”

She glanced back at him impatiently.

“No, Lord Emrys, I am not your enemy,” she said contemptuously. “My sister’s fate was of her own making. You’re just a tool.”

And then, to Merlin’s surprise, Ninianne merely walked off into the forest—no magic, no display of power. He stared at her trail long after she’d gone. _Cursed to bear no more children_. How many secrets had Uther—and Gaius—buried? He picked up another piece of Cauldron, crumbling it in his hand. He blew the dust from his palm, and with a thought froze the particles mid-air. But this time he felt no freedom in the exercise of his abilities. He had expected . . . a fight? Forgiveness? Some proof that he’d won?

Won what?

He’d destroyed the Cauldron of Ceridwen and Arthur had killed Alvarr, but Morgana was back in Camelot, her Destiny coiled to strike—and Uther still reigned, his laws against magic growing more restrictive by the day. Knights proudly, fervently hunted for sorcerers in Uther name, as the people of the town eyed their neighbors, talking less frequently to each other.

But some knights hesitated, Merlin had noticed. And the townspeople also turned their desperate faces to Arthur—for respite and guidance. Merlin had counted them, seeing his Destiny reflected in those slivers of hope.

He again breathed in his surroundings. He had learned some things tonight: Whatever the rules of the Gods, Ninianne could not kill him—not directly—of this he was certain. And Igraine’s child was destined for power.

 

_\--end--_

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who read this before 25 July 2018 may notice the ending has changed. Sorry about that. After I'd posted the story, I revised the last scene, which I like better. The original ending is still up at fanfiction.com, for the curious.


End file.
